


and sometimes you win (but you always get through)

by carentans



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: A Lot of Minor Relationships, Alternate Universe - College/University, Easy Company Cameos, Everyone Is Dating, Except for Guarnere I am So Sorry, George Wears Glasses, Lipton is a Great Friend, M/M, Nixon owns a bar, No Really the Gang's All Here, Some Unrealistic Action, THIS GOT WILDLY OUT OF HAND, that's the plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-20 15:38:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17025399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carentans/pseuds/carentans
Summary: Wherein George wears glasses, is quite dramatic, and things happen to him.





	and sometimes you win (but you always get through)

**Author's Note:**

> i sat down with the idea, _what if George Luz wore glasses_ , and this happened.

George kinda had shitty vision. 

It wasn’t terrible enough that he had to wear glasses throughout the day, but honestly, he probably should. He’d grown used to the fuzziness of objects in the distance. He was a good enough guesser to figure out what things were before he got himself into too much trouble. 

He had no reason to drive, so he wasn’t endangering anyone’s life by being on the road. George took the class and gotten his license in high school like everyone else, but he didn’t have a car. He was a friendly, chatty person, and he wasn’t afraid to ask for a ride.

(Lipton had once asked him to drive him to the pharmacy when he had the flu, but he wouldn’t make that mistake again. If he hadn’t already looked so sickly and pale, George’s driving surely would have done him in. Lip had barred him from the driver’s seat until he could “ _get his shit together._ ” And well, that wasn’t going to be happening any time soon, so George was happy in the passenger seat.) 

It wasn’t like he was a bad driver, but if he couldn’t see past the car in front of him, his credibility was pretty low. Squinting could only get him so far. He was pretty sure that wasn’t an argument the police would accept, so he kept away.

George could trip over just about anything, but he thought that was more to do with the fact he was always preoccupied with something, hands full or distracted in conversation, and usually wasn’t looking at the ground. He’d been walking just fine on his own for nearly 20 years and figured he was proficient enough he shouldn’t have to look at his feet.

(George had once tripped over Athena, Lipton and Speirs’ cat, and he’d been so scared of Speirs’ reaction that he wore his glasses for 3 weeks straight. He had taken better care of the glasses than he did himself, but that streak ended when he accidentally lost them in his closet for nearly six days.)

He struggled the most in his classes. George was always in a rush out the door, and he was lucky if he showed up with anything to write with, much less his glasses. He had enough trouble keeping up with the professor and writing his notes. Not being able to see information definitely put him at a disadvantage. 

(It wasn’t like he deliberately burdened himself. He had good intentions by keeping his glasses in his bag, but the moment he needed them for something other than class, he’d never remember to put them back.)

It wasn’t all bad, though. 

George was never without friends. He was quick to make relationships, finding most of his new friends in class, when he tapped on his neighbor’s shoulder and asked to look over their notes for anything he missed (which was everything). 

That’s how he’d met Malarkey and Muck. 

Malarkey had agreed but forced George into becoming his study buddy. That Psych class actually meant something to Malarkey’s degree, and in turn, he forced George to care as well. They passed little notes during class, but it was usually George making a joke, and Malarkey telling him to shut up. By the third class, they’d gotten into a routine. Malarkey wrote back to George’s dumb comment that he’d psychoanalyzed and diagnosed him as an idiot. " _u should be grateful for my expert opinion_ " he had added. 

He was.

(And George made sure the whole bar knew about it later that night. He drank, listened to his friends talk about their classes, and then stood up in his chair to shout about Don Malarkey’s perfect vision and perfect opinions.)

Muck was in his 8 am English class, and they were both miserable. When George struck up a conversation with him, he’d sheepishly looked over his notes and pointed to the blank gaps where he’d fallen asleep. Muck was just about as bad as him at paying attention, so they recruited the help of the girl sitting in front of them. 

Sweet Faye Tanner. 

She was the miracle George needed, sharing photos of her neat handwriting and even writing out additional, helpful comments for clarity. 

(She was a miracle for Muck, too, but she didn’t save his grade. He’d become smitten the moment she turned around and had immediately asked her out. She’d said yes, and well, Muck didn’t have much need for the notes anymore.)

George was doing far better this semester than he’d ever done before. 

He was a semester and a half away from graduating. His classes were going well enough that he bragged about his grades to anyone who listened, and the information actually made sense to him. He actually took questions and participated in discussions.

And most of the time, George remembered his glasses. 

Well, _most_ of the time. 

  


##

  


“Lip! Hi,” George said when the call connected. 

He continued on his desperate search, rustling papers and shoving books to the floor. His phone sat carefully in the center of his desk, so he wouldn’t lose that, too.

Lipton let out a sigh, the disappointing noise bouncing around his room. “What is it now, George?” 

George huffed, stopping his motion all together and put his hands on his hips, even though he knew Lipton couldn’t see him. “I’m offended you think I wouldn’t call you just to talk.” 

“Oh, _sorry_.” Lipton said dryly. “What is it you’ve done this time?” He asked anyways, and the muffled noise from the speaker sounded like he sat down, preparing for George’s problem. 

Now he had the mess on his floor to sort through after cleaning off his desk. George ignored that, moving to his dresser and beginning his search again. “My glasses. Have you seen them?” He questioned, but stopped, letting out a laugh. “ _I_ certainly haven’t,” he joked, like he wasn’t currently in the middle of a major crisis. 

Lipton had known him for years and knew George’s jokes were always a trap. It was better to not encourage him or else he’d ramble down some dead end path. 

“You haven’t been over here since the weekend. I think you were wearing them at the bar on Tuesday.”

George groaned loudly, stopping his search and throwing himself onto the bed. It was Thursday, and he’d skipped class the day before. There was no telling where his glasses could have gone in nearly two days. 

“George. Get off your bed and actually look. You have class in, what,” Lipton paused, probably checking the time, “20 minutes. Check your living room and kitchen. I remember putting you in your bed, but you were drunk enough that there’s no telling what you got into once I left.” 

He hated how predictable he could be. Or maybe he loved Lipton for being a close enough friend he knew George’s routines. That’s why George had called him for help. Sometimes, Lipton could direct him to find things he hadn’t even realized he lost.

The glasses weren’t in his kitchen because he’d already turned it upside down before starting on his bedroom. He grabbed up his phone and headed into the living room. After a pat down of the couch and laying on the floor to look under the furniture, George gave up. 

He let out another frustrated groan and checked the time again. 

“Sorry, Lip, gotta run. Thanks for your help,” he said, but had already shoved his phone into his pocket before hearing a reply. Grabbing up his bag and checking for paper, he rushed out the door.

Maybe if he’d run up and down a mountain everyday, he would have made it to class on time. George had no endurance for long distance sprints, so he showed up ten minutes late. 

His professor was cool, barely blinking an eye at his arrival. He got the full attention of the class, and as he moved to his seat, he noticed it had already been taken. It was every man for himself in this class, and someone was sure to take advantage of his absence.

Not only had he lost his glasses, but he missed out on his good seat, too. 

He wasn’t sure if the day could get worse. 

The class was terribly, achingly slow. George couldn’t see well enough to take notes, and since he didn’t have something to do, he couldn’t focus on the lecture. He tried to keep from moving too much, limiting himself to fiddling with his pencil. He could have spent the hour doing literally anything else, but he was trying to learn, even if none of the information would stick.

By the time class had finished, George was exhausted. He’d spent the lecture working to keep his energy contained. He really wanted to go straight home and take the nap he so rightfully deserved, but he knew he’d never manage to be still long enough to sleep. 

He crammed his binder back into his bag and unzipped the front pocket for his pencil. He was trying to keep things organized, so he wouldn’t lose anything _else_ when he saw them. 

George could have cried. 

How could he have forgotten he’d decided it was safer for his glasses to be in their own pocket than bouncing around his bag? He must have put them in there before he went to bed on Tuesday because Drunk George could be surprisingly responsible. It was Sober George who forgot everything. 

He sighed, grabbing his glasses and zipping up his bag. George had spent his morning rearranging his apartment in his wild search, and he still had to put everything back in order. He’d wasted an entire class, barred from his normal seat and unable to grab one closer in some desperate attempt to see anything. 

Maybe he should just start wearing his glasses all the time because it would be a lot harder to lose them off his face. 

  


##

  


George was in no hurry to go home. The last thing he wanted to do was clean, even though he knew it would probably help clear his mind. 

He had no shortage of friends, and (usually), they didn’t mind seeing him. The group he had cultivated in the last three years was comfortable and familiar. If they weren’t out getting drinks, they were piled in someone’s living room, eating takeout and arguing over movies. 

It wasn’t unusual for George to knock on someone’s door at 3 am. Thankfully, he’d never been shut out, but they hadn’t always been happy with him. Sometimes, he could stay up for what felt like days. George didn’t always like to be alone, nor did he need to be, and his friends were understanding enough to offer up their couch. 

But it wasn’t 3 am. It was afternoon on a Thursday.

Perconte had class for the rest of the afternoon, and if Penkala wasn’t in class, he was probably busy working. Muck had Faye, which meant George was the last person he wanted to see. 

He was pretty sure that Malarkey was finished with classes for the day, but he didn’t know his plans. He might have a shift at the bar, and if not, he was probably hanging out there. George hadn’t seen him since the weekend, but he wasn’t interested in talking about his day. Malarkey wasn’t very sympathetic, always quick to remind him that he had glasses for a reason. 

Lipton and Speirs were probably home. Speirs was a grad student, so he spent more time typing away on his computer than George thought humanly possible, and Lipton squeezed all of his classes into the morning hours. They’d finally decided to rent a house, much to the surprise of no one. They were all but officially married, so a starter house was just the next step in their achingly domestic relationship. 

George spent a lot of time at Lipton and Speirs’. Speirs was intense, but he wasn’t quite as terrifying as everyone believed. George had a lot of dirt on him, had seen his sensitive side because of his friendship with Lipton, so they’d come to an agreement.

George could lay on their couch, play with their cats, and complain about his day, and Speirs wouldn’t strangle him. (He knew that Speirs didn’t hate him, though. George cared a hell of a lot about Lipton, and Lipton cared about him. While their other friends were quickly kicked out once it got late, Speirs never threatened him. George had squeezed into his good graces, and he supposed he had Lipton to thank for that, too.) 

The house was a bit of a trek from campus, but George could do with stretching his legs. He might even tire himself out enough to crash on the couch without having to complain himself to sleep.

He sent Lipton a heads up that he was on his way over. He’d been surprised before, pushing open the door and announcing he was home, and ultimately, saw too much of both Speirs and Lip. George might have thought of them as some of his best friends, but he really didn’t need to know that much. 

George had forgotten his headphones in his rush earlier, and he quickly realized that this walk was going to take a lot more energy than he’d first thought. Background noise was the easiest way to drown out his thoughts, but he settled on looking at his phone instead, more than capable of multitasking as he walked. George was wearing his glasses, so he figured he was safe.

The campus hummed with the usual noise of friends catching up and students suffering. The sun was out, which beckoned kids to look helplessly at their books in the grass instead of the library. Someone had brought out a speaker and was jamming to 70s rock, and further ahead of him, a group of kids chased each other on skateboards.

It was distracting. George was torn between staring at his Instagram feed and listening to the bits of conversation he passed, just as nosy as always. 

He could have sworn he heard someone yell _George_. It wasn’t too crazy a thought because he could probably find a dozen people he knew, and a dozen more before he’d even left the campus. His body was moving before his mind could catch up, taking another hard step forward so he could spin around without stopping. 

Instead of heading back the way he’d come, he was abruptly thrown on his ass. 

He had enough forward momentum that the impact _hurt_ , but he hit the ground harder. Not only did he get the wind knocked out of him, but every other thought seemed to have slipped from his mind. His belongings meant nothing to him when he couldn’t even think.

(He guessed this walk really _did_ clear his head.) 

“Jesus H. _Christ_ ,” George groaned. 

George blinked his eyes open, suddenly and uncomfortably aware of his situation. He wasn’t holding his phone anymore, and his other wrist ached, like he’d tried to catch himself before falling. His ass hurt, but it wasn’t the first time he’d ever fallen on it. He blinked again, though his blurry vision didn’t clear. Quickly, he reached a hand up to his eyes, the panic subsiding when he realized he was still wearing his glasses, but hissed in pain, jerking his fingers away. 

He stared at his fingers, spots of red appearing at the tips. 

There was a sound above him, which he thought uncharacteristic for a wall to make, and it wasn’t until he looked past his bloody fingers that he saw the most casual pair of sweatpants he'd ever seen. 

“Oh, fuck,” Sweatpants said.

George didn’t know if he was still disoriented, but the voice above him was low and scratchy enough to make him shiver.

This probably hadn’t been the afternoon Sweatpants was expecting, but he didn’t seem too upset with George. Maybe he would have said something before he realized George was hurt, but now he was squatted beside him, and sighed in a quiet way that sounded like an apology, hands reaching out for his. 

George knew he wasn’t injured, just a little bruised. He’d certainly whine about his cut fingers to Lipton like his life was ending, and it would take a few days for his ego to recover. Sweatpants inspected his fingers before glancing to George’s face. “Your glasses,” he acknowledged unhelpfully.

George was gentler when he reached towards his glasses, grabbing the frames and pulling them off for inspection. 

“Shit,” George muttered. 

It seemed like his day could get worse, after all. 

He didn’t exactly have the nicest pair of glasses in the world. He’d bought them unwilling to spend a fortune, but needing something durable. Settling on a rather normal set of black frames, George found them dependable. 

Now, George was left wondering exactly how hard he hit Sweatpants. The right side of the frame had splintered, cracking the glass. It didn’t exactly look like a cheap fix, and he stared in horror as half the lens separated from the frame and broke on the ground. 

He’d gotten glasses in grade school. Those years were filled with many accidents, but no amount of reckless activity had ever cracked the glass. He’d broken the legs clean off, but those could be fixed with a little glue. 

Sweatpants had retrieved his phone and picked up a binder, book, and empty coffee cup. 

He pushed himself off the ground, offering a hand to George. “Think you can stand?” 

George gratefully took the help, a little too distracted with his broken glasses to even notice that Sweatpants had pulled him up with one arm, seemingly unaffected by his weight. 

“Yeah, thanks,” he said quietly. 

“Maybe next time you’ll look up from your phone,” Sweatpants suggested, but there was an edge to his comment that George did not like at all. 

George grabbed his phone and choked out a bewildered, “ _Excuse me?_ ”

Sweatpants seemed wholeheartedly disinterested in his argument and stared at him in a way George wished he didn’t. (He was angry now, and he didn’t need any more distractions, especially not from intense, dark eyed strangers.) 

“I wasn’t looking at my phone. It just happened to be in my hand as I turned around.” 

He stole a quick glance to the sidewalk around them and fought to keep his voice level. George wasn’t about to lose it right here, in this stupid argument. He’d still participate, because he refused to be proven wrong.

“Maybe _next time_ you’ll walk literally _anywhere_ else.” 

Sweatpants scoffed, just barely a noise, but his stare didn’t waver. (George didn’t know how he could be such a good arguer with so little words.) 

“You had the opportunity to move out of the way,” George pointed out, but he could infer that Sweatpants had been equally as distracted. “But instead,” he barreled on. “You broke my glasses.” 

That was good enough to get him talking, and truthfully, George wasn’t sure which he preferred. His gaze could hold plenty of anger, but his voice was dangerous, like a warning before an attack. 

“I think you handled that on your own. I wasn’t knocked down. _You_ ran into me.” 

George clutched his glasses harder, a little too angry to put together a proper sentence. It wasn’t like he could help that Sweatpants was all muscle and steadier on his feet than George could ever wish to be. 

“You,” he began, but shut his mouth before he tried to stutter his way through an argument. George let out an angry huff before trying again. “You’re bigger than me and walked faster. I didn’t stand a chance.” 

A new look quirked on Sweatpants’ face, and George thought he saw a smirk. 

That only made him more frustrated, and he’d already had enough. 

“Fuck you,” George spat, shoving past him with as much force as he could manage (but not enough to backfire and put him back on his ass). He didn’t look back as he kept walking, too caught up in his own rage. Focusing on the ground, he counted his steps in a desperate attempt to do anything to shove down his anger and, ultimately, his attraction to this stranger. 

He was a fucker, and George didn’t care how nice his lips were or how badly he wanted to press up against that body another time in a vastly different situation. 

  


## 

  


Once he stomped off, George was focused on one thing - finding someone to complain to. His day had been shitty enough that he was at his wits end, and he could use a drink and a couple of drunk friends that would listen to him talk. 

(He wouldn’t actually get any help or find the answer to his problems, but maybe he could yell and feel a little better about himself.) 

George had forgotten all about his original plan to crash on Lipton and Speirs’ couch and mope privately. The recent turn of events called for a full audience to be privy to George’s suffering, and he’d really like a beer. Speirs had an expensive taste, and Lipton wasn’t much of a drinker. He’d rather not add _arguing with Speirs over his shitty, overpriced whiskey_ to his day.

He made it all the way to the bar before his phone phone rang. 

“George?” Lip asked once he accepted the call. 

George could hear the worry in his voice, but he was working his hardest to keep it under control. He’d known George practically his whole life and knew that he could be forgetful, plans accidentally cancelled without warning. It wasn’t like he meant to be a flake, but a hundred different things happened in a second, and it was terribly easy for him to get distracted.

(Often the hundred different things happening were because of him, because he was happy to chat with just about anyone he saw.) 

“That’s me,” he replied, balancing his phone between his ear and shoulder.

“Bull!” He said louder, patting him on the back as he passed through. “Long time, no see! Where ya been?” 

“Here and there, Luz,” Bull returned, but George was already ten steps away.

(George would be back, eventually. He’d call things as he saw them, starting conversations and leaving them open for later, more dedicated talk.)

The sun was still up, and it wasn’t happy hour, so the bar wasn’t busy. Only a few seats were taken, but everyone here was friends of the owner. This hole-in-the-wall was more like an apartment to crash in than a public establishment. 

“George,” Lipton tried again. “Are you at Nix’s?” 

“Oh, shit, Lip. Yeah, I am. Sorry, I got caught up and forgot. S’nice of you to check in on me, Mom.”

“Well, I had to make sure you weren’t going to break in when we least expected it. You know, we live in a house so we don't have to deal with bratty, little kids.” 

“You love me," George scoffed. 

“So I’m guessing your day only got worse?” Lipton pushed ahead. 

“That’s one way to put it. I’m slated to perform my monologue during happy hour, if you want to sit in.” 

Lipton sighed but gave his assurances he’d show up at the end of the night, and George could tell him all about it in the car. “Don't drink too much, yeah?" he asked and ended the call. 

George slid his phone into his pocket and headed around the bartop. 

There was no sign of a bartender, but George helped himself to a beer regardless. He shrugged off his bag, shoving it under the counter and out of the way before pushing open the door to the backroom. 

“Malark?” He called out, twisting off the cap. 

The bar was cozy. It had a moderately sized main room with enough tables and chairs to comfortably fit his extended group of friends. The backroom was cramped, but good enough to rest in, and the storage room was cluttered with liquor bottles and seasonal decorations. There was an apartment on the second floor, but George was sure that Nixon only used it because the bar wasn’t big enough to fit his bed, and Dick deserved somewhere proper to live. 

“You don’t work today,” Dick said bluntly, looking up from the card game happening in the middle of the room. 

“Not supposed to be stealing my merchandise either, but,” Nixon added, slapping down his hand and cherished the way Dick stared at his cards before disappointedly revealing his own. “Everyone here does whatever they want.” 

Surely, not _everyone_ in their friend group acted like they owned the bar, but it had become rather common practice to make himself comfortable even when he wasn’t on the schedule. At this point, everyone hung out here enough that if Nixon tried to kick everyone out, he’d be left with no customers or employees. Practically all of his friends had worked here at some point or another, and Nixon had trouble differentiating friends from workers.

“Malarkey’s doing inventory,” Dick nodded. 

“He had a shitty hand.” Nixon collected the cards, broke the deck, and shuffled without looking away from George. “Said he’d play me to get out of doing it. Needs to work on his poker face, too.” 

Dick sent a look over at Nixon like he wasn’t happy with the way the events transpired, but honestly, when was he? 

The bar wasn’t technically in Dick’s ownership, but the two of them had been dating since the beginning of time, and he’d absorbed some of the responsibilities. He was a nice boss, more concerned with fairness than rules, but Nixon was like an older brother. He could tell you exactly how much liquor was in any bottle behind the bar but couldn’t remember the schedule or the smaller, less glamorous things that came with being a business owner. 

In turn, this made him a highly proficient delegator. Dick would remind him, and Nixon would remember he had employees. Nixon traded off responsibilities through poker hands, games of darts or _‘cause I said so_ , but no one complained. It all seemed rather fair to them.

“Put it on my tab,” George said, raising his bottle for a drink. “Who’s working tonight? Lieb?” 

“Yeah, maybe he’ll remember to show up.” Nixon replied. “Tell Malarkey to call and remind him.” 

“No problem,” George nodded, exiting through the door he’d come in, quick to get out before Nixon decided to give him something to do. He’d never had a problem with that, either; any and all employees were fair game.

There were a few more faces just arriving at the bar, and George scoffed. 

“Pretty sure you’re not legally allowed in here, Babe,” he called out, setting his beer down on the countertop. “Julian, you’re on thin fucking ice.” 

Both men threw their hands up, shouting back their own _fuck off, Luz_ es. As the youngest of the friend group, they’d gotten used to the constant torment. Babe and Julian were just barely sophomores, but they’d managed to squeeze their way into the group without much hassle. 

“Bull, Johnny? Another one?” George questioned. Johnny Martin must have showed up recently, but he already looked comfortable slouched in the chair across from Bull. 

Once they’d waved off his offer, he exited from behind the bar and walked to the storage room. 

Pushing open the door, he gave his best Nixon impression, yelling that Malarkey needed to recount everything. 

“Huh?” Malarkey startled instead, sitting up and rubbing his eyes casually as though he hadn’t just been caught sleeping on the job. “Luz, what the fuck are you doing here?” 

“I guess I’m here to wake you up, loser,” he said, kicking his shoe. 

“Well, fuck you,” Malarkey replied. It took him another minute before he pushed himself off the floor and picked up the clipboard he’d left balancing on a stack of miniature green party hats. “Not a good Nix, either. You know he’s never once yelled about work.” 

George shrugged. “It’s a work in progress. I can’t be the best all the time.” 

Malarkey laughed at the implication. “Yeah, you’re really hot shit. Everything from your study skills to your ability to see ten feet in front of your face.” He turned to regard him before shaking his head. “Which I guess is nothing right now,” he teased. 

George let out an angry breath at the mention. He’d managed to calm down since arriving at the bar, but now that Malarkey had brought it back up, he remembered why he showed up. He had changed his mind since earlier, deciding that Malarkey was exactly the one he wanted to complain to.

“That’s actually why I’d come to find you.” 

“To ask for my notes?” Malarkey asked. 

“I wish,” George said. “Get this - some jackass broke my glasses on campus today.” 

“That explains the attitude. What’s he gonna do about it?” 

George made another small noise, trying to conceal the fact he hadn’t even thought of that. He’d just gotten mad and left as quickly as possible, and now he all he had were broken glasses. 

“Nice one, George. How’d it happen?”

He sat down against the shelf where Malarkey had been napping and prepared his tale. 

(This would just be the first of many recountings.) 

George would say he was a pretty good storyteller. He knew how to spin a tale, to forgo the boring parts and embellish the best. He knew how to make his friends laugh, and if he was lucky enough, he’d be asked to tell it again to others who had missed the first session. But most importantly, he could keep people’s attention. 

(The validity of the story, however, was less important.)

“So, d’you remember anything from Tuesday? I don’t, thanks to Muck’s drinking game, but apparently, Drunk Luz is quite the studious student. After Lip dropped my ass off and made sure I wasn’t going to brain myself on the bedroom floor, Drunk Luz took off his glasses and safely tucked them away in the front pocket of his backpack. Wednesday rolls around and Drunk Luz has aged to Hungover Luz, and he barely remembers anything except sitting on the bathroom floor for hours -” 

“Jesus Christ, George.” Malarkey cut in. “I appreciate the theatrics, but I’m already your friend. I don’t need the full 48 hour recount. You’ve already won me over. Save that for the yuppies out there.” 

George sighed. “You’re really ruining the effect here, Malark. But fine. Just because you’ve got a bullshit job, and I feel bad for you,” he promised before clearing his throat and continuing. 

He carefully narrated the events of his afternoon, down to the finest detail. George’s day had been rough enough, so he might as well share the sentiment. (And so what, maybe he’d talked a bit too long about the sound of Sweatpants’ voice, but Malarkey was already a little too exasperated to call him on it.) 

Malarkey stayed quiet in the moments following the story’s end. He picked up an empty bottle before glancing over at George. 

“I really hate to break it to you. That was your fault.” 

George was left spluttering, wounded by the betrayal. Even after telling his own story, placing himself as the hero and victim, he was cut down another time. Granted, Malarkey wasn’t the most sympathetic of audiences, but he’d hoped to win him over since this was a serious offense. It wasn’t like he’d dropped his coffee on the sidewalk and decided to drown his sorrows and cry about it. 

“Was not my fault,” George managed, crossing his arms. “The whole goddamn quad was open. He could have walked anywhere but in a straight line with me.” 

“I guess. But you shouldn’t have turned around. You’re a pretty unpredictable person, and strangers don’t like that. Hell, I don’t like that, and I know you pretty well..” 

“You kinda fucking suck, you know that?” George asked, pushing himself up from the ground. “I can’t even use my glasses because half the glass fell out. My phone has another crack. I just got it fixed. And you don’t even care. I’m blind. I’m wounded. See?” He held out his injured hand and wiggled his other, like that proved it ached. 

Malarkey stared at him for a few seconds before returning back to his work. "You forgot the bruise on your nose," he added. It was pretty cold that he cared more for inventory than George’s disastrous day, but he wasn’t all that surprised. While Lipton would let George wax on forever, Malarkey put an end to it real quick. 

“How’s this for unpredictable,” he muttered, kicking the back of Malarkey’s knees and laughed when he yelped. 

Malarkey threw the clipboard at him in retaliation, the board slapping against his arm before clattering to the floor. 

“Oh yeah. Call Lieb and remind him about his shift,” George called over his shoulder, already halfway out the room.

  


##

  


As the sun set, the bar got busier, noisy with the sound of his friends acting like they hadn’t seen each other in years, even though this was everyone’s nightly haunt. 

George had decided to take pity on himself if no one else would. Once he’d left Malarkey in the back, he returned behind the counter. Talbert was standing nearby, waiting for a drink, and he could only suspect he had a full booth waiting for him across the room. George poured them both a shot of tequila in lieu of a greeting and ignored the skeptical look he received, but Talbert emptied his glass and held up two fingers. 

He grabbed the beers, sliding them across the counter with, “I’m not working tonight.” 

“Cheers, Luz,” Talbert returned. 

Talbert had already turned, taking a few steps before returning to the bar. “I’d do another shot with you to make up for whatever shit you’ve gotten into, but I’ve got an exam tomorrow.” 

George appreciated the sentiment but waved him off to his friends. He was content to wait here until he was relieved. He wasn’t getting paid for his work, but his friends continued showing up at the counter.

Liebgott eventually arrived, grumbling like he’d never been more inconvenienced. He took one look at George and poured him something stronger than his beer and shooed him from the bar. 

George made his way to the middle table, where his friends had already taken residence. They’d been here for long enough to grow comfortable in their seats, most everyone on their second drink.

“Muck!” He said, practically throwing himself into his lap. 

“Get started early, Georgie?” Muck replied, taking the glass from him before he’d spilt it everywhere. Maybe George should have spent more time drinking than trying to get Malarkey’s compassion.

George ignored him, barrelling on as the familiarity dawned on him. 

“Oh, beautiful Faye Tanner. Always an honor to be in your presence.” 

Muck grumbled a _watch it, Luz_ to Penkala’s _what am I, chopped liver?_

“George, it’s been awhile,” Faye agreed and inspected him closer. “Still not wearing your glasses, I see.” 

“Now, you are just not going to believe this,” George began, raising his voice to fight against the hum of conversation around them. 

This audience was much friendlier than Malarkey had been, allowing him to start from the beginning. Whether the alcohol or the content, George got them hooked. He got their groans when he revealed his classroom devastation and their teasing as his frequent drink breaks had made his words faster, sentences jumbling together in his own excitement to get it all out. At one point, he even jumped up, performing his part. 

They agreed with his anger, giving their apologies, and they’d mournfully raised a glass in memoriam to his glasses. Perconte had grabbed his injured hand, trying to “kiss it better”, and George had shoved him off, laughing. 

The conversation naturally shifted to something lighter, Muck leading the rest of the table on the tale of his own day, and George tapped out. 

His misfortune didn’t seem so bad anymore. Not when he had his friends’ rapport and a little vodka.

Well, _no_ vodka, as his glass was empty. 

He got up, in search of another drink when he pushed by Bull and Martin. 

“Mind if I sit?” George asked but dropped heavily into the open chair before an answer. “How’s work?” 

Somewhere in his mind, he remembered Bull telling him they’d just gotten new jobs together, but he couldn’t quite place it right now. It explained their absence at the bar, and maybe no one else had noticed since they didn’t often jump into huge conversations, but George liked to be among his people.

“It’s going fine, Luz,” Martin replied. “A lot of traveling. A lot of folksy wisdom. Maybe too much.”

Martin and Bull shared a look, but George was a little too drunk to investigate. He had his assumptions on exactly what that sort of look meant. 

Hoobler passed by the table with three drinks carefully gathered in his hands. They were bright red, and if George knew Lieb, he was certain they were deceptively sour. 

“Hold up. I’ll take that,” George said, easing the front drink from his grasp. It would be a damn shame if Hoobler were to drop one, so he figured he would help out. Almost immediately, Hoobler was arguing, but he couldn’t exactly throw hands without ruining his drinks. “I’ll get you another one, geez. Now, get out of here.” 

“Did I hear you broke your glasses?” Bull questioned once George had promised to personally deliver another drink to Hoobler before the night ended and satisfied his anger.

“I didn’t,” he spluttered. “This guy did. Ran straight into him. He’s probably got an angrier frown than you do, Johnny.” 

George laughed, receiving one of those frowns. Bull shot him a look, like he'd been able to hear his true thoughts on the stranger, but George didn’t want to think about it. 

“I’ll see you two around. Gotta go waitress for Hoob,” he said, pushing himself up and grabbing his drink. 

George turned away and fled into the crowd to avoid the look Bull and Martin shot each other regarding him. It was nice and all to be thought of, but he didn’t need them analyzing his feelings. Maybe they should stick to their own. 

The path to the bar wasn’t nearly as easy now that it’d gotten busy. He carefully pushed past regulars and strangers until he’d made it to the counter. He leaned against the counter and drank his stolen drink. He didn’t know what was in it, but he’d done Hoobler a favor taking it off his hands. Hoob would be under the table after a drink of this.

Babe bumped into him, and George looked up, swatting his arm. 

“George! How ya been?” Babe asked loudly. Babe wasn’t much of a drinker, though he looked the part, stumbling and flushed cheeks, like he’d had a glass too many. He was just affectionate and carefree. 

Talbert and Grant appeared to his right, and he nodded to them. “Listen to the fuckery that happened to me today,” he began. 

Since he was at the bar top, he was able to wrangle quite the following, including some repeat listeners. The story was simpler this time, but that was mostly because he was thinking about the drink he wanted to make and his tongue was getting tied over the finer details.

“Tragic,” Skinny piped up when he’d finished describing his ailments. Skinny had climbed up on a bar stool halfway through the story, listening for a minute and promptly ordered something with “a lot of tequila.” 

“Bitch,” George said, throwing a paper napkin at him. 

Babe had a very serious look on his face, but he was trying to be helpful. “Could have been worse. You coulda broken your ass instead.” 

The guys who had been listening lost it. They laughed hard enough for Liebgott to send them an angry look. 

“You’re killing me, Babe,” George replied. He meant well, but Jesus, he was probably about as ridiculous as George had been at his age. He watched as they lovingly manhandled Babe back through the bar, still in stitches, but proud of him, requiring his presence at their table.

George looked over the bar, planning his next move. Liebgott was busy, of course, actually doing his job helping actual customers instead of friends. He was busy flirting or insulting, adding ingredients to a tumbler with passion. 

George huffed, making his way around the bar, hoping to be in and out before anyone had the chance to yell at him. 

(Best case scenario would have Lieb angrily chasing him away from his tips, and worst case was a scolding from Dick before he’d call Lip to come prematurely take him home.) 

He’d nearly topped off his drink, reaching for a cherry when a little tap on the counter got his attention. George opened his mouth, beginning to explain that he wasn’t on the clock, which made it perfectly acceptable to tell them to get lost, when he stopped short. 

“ _You_ ,” he fumbled quickly. 

“You,” Sweatpants responded, but he wasn’t nearly as drunk.

“How’d you -” George began but cut himself off just as easily. “Fuck you.” 

“Yeah? That why you’ve been telling that story all night?” He asked, leaning against the bar.

George’s cheeks flushed, but it wasn’t from embarrassment. He took the time to look at him, to really look at him, because Drunk George deserved the treat. It certainly wasn’t fair, and George kind of wanted to tell him that. 

It was darker in here than it had been outside, but George was more than familiar with the way he was built. With him this close, it was like that smokey voice was meant just for him. Sweatpants was attractive, all dark hair, dark eyes and absolutely overwhelming.

“You think so?” Sweatpants cut in, the hint of a smile on his face, and George blinked. 

He suddenly realized he must have said that out loud, but he supposed there was no going back now. George stared at him, looking between his hands pressed on the bar and his lips and took a drink to compose himself. 

George reached out, grabbing his jacket to pull him even closer. 

“I don’t know. I can’t see you,” he said, watching as his eyes got impossibly darker. He’d meant to say it with a little more attitude, but he supposed breathless worked as well. 

“Can I get that beer now?” Sweatpants asked after a moment passed. 

George had no plan of letting him go any time soon. He couldn’t help but spare another glance at his lips, and he knew that Sweatpants was doing the same. He surged forward, chasing after the rough kiss he’d been waiting all day for. It hadn’t been a total surprise since Sweatpants seemed rather happy to oblige. 

“For fuck’s sake!” A voice interrupted, and George belatedly realized where they were before Liebgott smacked him with his towel. “At _my_ bar?”

George pulled away, releasing his jacket in an attempt to protect himself during Liebgott’s assault. 

“You drink one thing, and you turn into an idiot!” 

George had no excuse for him and couldn’t piece together a sentence anyways. He was too damn focused on those lips and that kiss and trying not to hit him back for interrupting them. They’d just have to find somewhere else, and George reached for the cherry to top his drink off. 

“No.” Liebgott said harshly, smacking his hand. “Fuck off! Go be a whore somewhere else.” 

“Shit, Lieb,” George grumbled, lifting his drink up and as drinking as much as he could before Liebgott got any angrier. He’d barely set the glass down when he was shoved from behind the bar.

In doing so, Liebgott had shoved him into Sweatpants, who’d backed away from the counter. 

They’d gotten luckier this time, Sweatpants’ arms wrapping around his waist and preventing him from busting his ass for the second time that day. 

“We’ve gotta stop doing this,” George muttered, but it wasn’t so bad, now. He had those arms wrapped around him. The sudden movement had made his head spin, so he rested it on his chest. “Feels like I’ve been hit by a brick wall.”

The noise of the bar buzzed all around him, and he could faintly hear Liebgott talking shit about him while he helped another customer. There were shouts from the corner about a bet gone wrong, and the sound of chairs scraping against the floor sounded like a countdown to a fight.

He’d been given the chance for the alcohol to catch up with him, and George realized this was usually the time of night he’d find someone to latch onto. Drunk George was even more of a people person than Sober, and if he couldn’t find anyone to cuddle, he’d become sad, irrevocably pitiful, and then probably fall down. 

“Joe,” the voice under him said finally. Leaning up against him, George had no concept of time. It could have been seconds or years, but it didn’t matter either way. He was warm, secure, and could probably get another kiss if he asked. 

“No, it’s George,” he replied slowly, confused. 

His comment was met with a little laugh, which made George laugh, even if he didn’t quite get it. 

“That’s my name. Joe. Realized you might want to know it before we kissed again.” 

George hummed, wrapping his arms around him in return. 

“Maybe we should sit down for a while,” Joe suggested. 

George directed him out the back door and didn’t let go of him until they made it outside, sliding down the wall near the door. 

“You okay?” Joe asked, joining him on the ground, hand finding his thigh. 

“Better,” George promised. He was drunk, but he’d been drunk enough times to know he could be worse. It was a little hard for him to watch how fast he talked and make sure those were actually words coming out of his mouth. He was okay, a little heavy on his feet and could use a break.

(He’d just gotten overwhelmed by the kiss, that’s all.) 

From beside him, Joe moved his hand, patting his jacket pockets until he found what he was looking for. He tapped out a cigarette and put it between his lips. “Smoke?” 

George shook his head and watched as Joe pulled out his lighter, holding it until the cigarette lit. He flicked it shut before breathing out a cloud of smoke. 

George reached for the cigarette anyways. At this point in the evening, he’d probably lose interest before finishing so there was no point in wasting one. 

“Sorry about earlier. About your glasses. And your phone.” Joe said. 

George blew out a harsh breath, staring at the cigarette between his fingers. He figured he deserved another go and made Joe wait for his response. 

“Sorry for calling you a dickhead.” 

Joe laughed, plucking the cigarette from him. “I’m not sure you did, but I guess I deserve it.” 

A quiet fell over them, and they passed the cigarette back and forth. 

“So what’s going to happen? With your glasses? Can you get them repaired?” 

George shrugged but moved in closer, resting his head on his shoulder. “Probably. Think it’d be easier to get a new pair, though.” 

“Huh,” Joe said, like he’d never thought of it that way, and that was that. 

  


## 

  


George actually took the time to pick out his new pair of glasses. 

Prior to this, he’d mostly picked the frames dependent on price and availability. He’d always wanted something simple. The less conspicuous, the better. He generally wanted to forget about them.

At 8 years old, he’d let his mom handle the problem and pick out his first pair. He ended up with simple rectangle frames, and they could have been worse. It wasn’t like he wore them much anyways, but he had been happy to get another pair. So when he broke the hinges trying to prove a point to a classmate two years later, he jumped on the opportunity. 

He tried on every available pair in the store until the worker and his mom were fed up. He was too indecisive to make his choice, and turns out, he had really only wanted to try on the sample glasses, so his mom chose for him, pointing to the frames he had on his face. And he ended up with a rather unfortunate set of metal ovals.

(He broke the hinges three months later, and after getting them repaired, he was grounded for a month.)

George didn’t get a new pair until he graduated from high school. He’d lost his second pair, probably having thrown them off the roof somewhere, and hadn’t worn glasses in nearly 7 years. George graduated with okay grades, but that was probably due to him being able to retain useless bits of knowledge. God knows he never took notes, so he didn’t have to pretend like he could see the board. (He couldn’t.) He had bullshitted his way this far, but his mom had insisted.

So they surprised his doctor, and George got the most utilitarian pair he could find. He picked picked them for their durability, and it didn’t hurt that the blocky frame style was back in fashion. 

Turns out, those glasses were not _walking-directly-into-Joe-Toye_ -proof. 

He figured since he was planning on wearing his glasses all the time, he might as well find a pair he liked. He spent longer than he’d like to admit in the store, modeling pair after pair for Lipton. George had already fucked around for two and a half weeks, halfheartedly looking at frames and never quite settling on anything. He’d been busy the week following his incident, but the next two weeks had been quiet on the purchasing part, George too indecisive and stubborn.

George couldn’t trust him - not when Lipton complimented every pair including the purple cat eyes. Lipton had nothing to lose if George ended up with a shitty pair. He didn’t have to wear them. (He’d have to hear George whine about it forever, but he was used to that by now.) 

“Why didn’t you ask your boyfriend to come instead?” Lipton asked as George very seriously investigated two nearly identical frames. If he noticed the pink on George’s cheeks, he didn’t mention anything, but it didn’t stop him from continuing. “I think he would probably have a nice opinion on the matter.” 

“Shut up,” George shot back, but he was a little too frazzled to be witty. 

“You can’t be serious,” he said. “The two of you have been attached at the hip for nearly three weeks. You haven’t come over once. And I’m pretty sure you haven’t slept alone since.” 

“We have a date,” George confessed finally, voice small. When he didn’t get the surprised reaction he expected, he squinted at him. “He had stuff he needed to do today. So I asked you.”

“Wait,” Lipton replied, rubbing a hand over his face. “Did you not know the two of you were already dating? George, you can’t just _casually fuck_ someone for nearly a month and not be in some sort of a relationship.” He let out a disbelieving noise when George’s cheeks turned pinker. “ _Oh my god_. George Luz, he is your boyfriend, even if he’s never said it out loud. What, are you in love with him, too?” 

George dropped the pair he’d been looking at, staring with wide eyes. “What?” He stuttered, too quickly to be nonchalant. “No.” 

George wasn’t. He couldn’t be. He’d only known Joe for... hell, about 23 days. He’d hated him almost instantly upon meeting, and then not even 6 hours later was kissing him and falling asleep on his shoulder in the alleyway. 10 hours after that he woke up in his arms, and had (quite easily) convinced him to stay. And, well, he did. 

He wasn’t an idiot. George had been in relationships before. 

He’d had a yearlong girlfriend in high school, but in hindsight, they’d stayed together so long out for the status quo. George had realized while kissing girls was nice, it wasn’t what he wanted to spend his life doing. She’d agreed he was a nice kisser, but she’d much rather be kissing the girl who sat beside her in Spanish. Sure, Lipton was gay, and the whole damn town knew and hadn’t rioted once, but George had been a little shy about his sexuality. 

He’d spend the rest of high school messily hooking up with anyone who seemed interested, which was mostly girls. He was only able to steal a few kisses from a boy when he’d been cornered by the football player he’d watched all year, but that was it.

George didn’t really get to experiment until college, but once he showed up, he realized that living in the dorms was a blessing. Here, he could do what he pleased. _Who_ he pleased. He’d nearly exhausted himself of his options until he met Malarkey. They’d hooked up because they were friends, but spent enough time with each other, it turned serious. 

Him and Malarkey were good. They were happy, overflowing with love, but they’d drifted apart mutually. Sure, he still loved him. He spent a great 14 months with him, but they just weren’t going to end up together. And they were both fine with that. 

Since Malarkey, he’d settled. He’d gotten busy in his classes. Sometimes, he could find someone on the weekends, but nothing lasted past Sunday, and that was fine. Not everyone could be Lipton, who’d found his soulmate about 25 seconds after stepping onto campus, or Nixon and Dick who’d met at camp as kids and stuck like glue. 

Well, maybe he _was_ an idiot. 

George didn’t know a damn thing about anything, and especially didn’t know anything about love. 

Drunk George was the first to say _I love you_ to just about anyone, clingy and quiet, whispering it for anything and everything, and Sober George supposed he did. He had a lot of love for his friends, but none of it was ever romantic. Aside from Malarkey, he couldn’t imagine dating anyone else in his group. He’d do anything for them, but he wouldn’t be reciting vows any time soon. 

“Oh, George,” Lipton said quieter, breaking him out of his thoughts. Anyone who’d seen George and Joe together could see the helpless puppy love they shared. Everyone but them, apparently. 

“Lip, I think I love him,” George said in an indescribable tone of voice. He kinda felt like he was going to explode from excitement and then promptly die. He didn’t know what to do with himself. 

Lipton nodded. “I know how you feel.” 

In no way had Lipton ever come to George, stupidly pretending like he wasn’t already in a relationship with Speirs, but he appreciated the sentiment. He hadn’t been nervous before their first date or suddenly come to a startling realization he was in love. Every time Lipton had ever spoken to George about his relationship, he’d sounded so confident. Their relationship just _was_. There was no questioning, no doubting, and no fear. 

“What am I supposed to do?” He asked quieter. “I’m fucked.” 

He got a little laugh in response. “You are. But it’s okay. Joe's friends might not have pointed it out to him yet, but I don’t think anyone would rationally spend this much time with you if he didn’t feel something.” Lipton pointed to the glasses on his face. “You should buy those. Then, we should get food. Maybe burgers.”

“Thanks for the boost of confidence,” George replied dully, but took off the frames and looked them over in his hands before nodding. “I guess you’re right.” 

So, George had made up his mind. He said _fuck it_ and jumped headfirst. 

He put in the order for his new glasses. They went for lunch, and Lipton let him recount just how dreamy he found Joe. Lipton needed to go grocery shopping, though it quickly turned into Lipton checking a list and George trying to sneak candy into the cart. Once they’d finished with that, George got a call about his glasses, and they swung back by, and he tried not to cringe at the bill. Then, Lipton drove him home. 

Lipton stopped in front of George’s building. 

“Don’t overthink it, George. Don’t stress yourself out, but don’t lose your nerve. You don’t have to tell him tonight just because you figured it out for yourself. But if you want to... I don’t think you’ll have a problem,” Lipton explained. 

George thought it was pretty bold of him to be making all of these promises on Joe’s account, but he supposed Lipton really did have faith in them, then. He wasn’t much on lying to George. 

“Wear something blue. Comb your hair. Or don’t, I don’t really know. I suppose Joe has seen you dressed down more often than not. Remember your manners. He may love you, but it’s still a date.” 

“Yes, Mother,” George teased, rolling his eyes and grabbing the door handle. “Unlock the door please? I need to go stare at my closet and cry for the next few hours in preparation for my date.” 

Lipton pressed the button and watched as George got out, carefully shutting the door behind him. He got a few steps away before Lipton called after him. “George,” he said, rolling down the window and waiting until he caught his attention. “Cute glasses.” 

“Thanks, Lip,” George replied. “For everything.” He offered up a wave and grinned to himself the entire way to his apartment. 

George tried to preoccupy himself the best he could in the hours leading up to his date. The less he thought about how much he loved Joe Toye ( _a fucking lot_ , that’s how much), the better. 

He turned on some music and cleaned the dishes that had been sitting in his sink. Once that was done, he threw away old takeout from the fridge and picked up the beer bottles they’d left out from the previous night. He cleaned up the trail of clothes that led to his bedroom, and definitely did not think about why they were there, no matter how much he wanted to. 

George’s room, surprisingly, wasn’t all that messy. He’d had no reason to throw all his shit in the floor in some frantic search for something. He had a few piles of paper and empty candy wrappers on his desk, but that was the least of his concerns. If he tried organizing at a time like this, he’d never be able to find anything once he was lucid again. He shoved a pair of shoes back beneath the bed and dropped a jacket into his closet. 

When he checked his phone for the time, he let out a very disappointed groan and sat down heavily on his bed. George had done the most he could to avoid thinking, but now he was prepared to wrap himself up in his thoughts until he was overflowing with anxiety. It was an astonishingly stupid idea, but no one was there to stop him. 

He stared at his phone for a while, but once he got tired of that, he took off his glasses and placed them safely on his desk before heading to the bathroom for a shower. He could at least drive himself crazy in some hot water. 

The hours passed by slowly once he’d gotten out of the shower. Joe was really the only person he wanted to talk to right now, but he was working, and George already knew that he didn’t check his phone. 

Their date crept closer, and George wished he wasn’t so fucking nervous. 

It wasn’t his first date ever. He’d been on a bunch of first dates. He could deal with fancy settings or casual restaurants or strangers from dating apps or people he’d met in class. He’d even been on a few dates with people his friends introduced him to and sat through a few double dates. He’d never exactly been the nervous type. He could find conversation anywhere, even if it was awkward. 

But it wasn’t awkward with Joe. 

It never had been, not even when he was mad at him in the middle of campus because he broke his glasses. When he saw him later at the bar, he’d been attracted to him, and he proved it. Somehow, Joe managed to get him home, wrangling his address and key from him, and waking up beside him felt normal. He wasn’t wearing a lot of clothes, but he wasn’t worried about it. When Joe explained he’d brought him up and George insisted he stayed, promptly undressed and flung himself into bed, George would have kissed him if he wasn’t so hungover. Once they finally got out of bed much later that day, Joe banished him to the couch and found his way around the kitchen with ease. Joe left much later that night, but he showed up with lunch the next day, and they just kinda fell into a rhythm. 

George was nervous because he’d made himself nervous. He’d sat here and took everything Lipton had said and tore it apart. He was afraid, even though there was this voice inside of him telling him not to be, that he’d already known everything Lipton had said. That he’d already been able to see it with his own eyes. 

(He was also a little angry for even doubting himself - for doubting Joe - but he wasn’t going to dwell on that because he wasn’t going to let his bad mood affect their evening.) 

He finally pushed himself from the bed, returning to his closet. George pushed through his clothes before remembering the half basket of laundry tucked in the corner. He picked up a pair of tight jeans that Joe had happily agreed upon when he saw them last week. Joe reserved himself to a simple palette of clothes, so George had to be the adventurous one, and he chose a button up with an abstract pattern. 

George combed his fingers through his hair, but didn’t do too much with it. After putting on his shoes, he was back to his waiting game. 

Joe had texted while he’d been considering his outfit, writing he was on his way home from work and would be over after a shower.

George sent back a dozen smiley faces and rubbed his sweaty palms on his jeans. He wasn’t going to get fucked by his own stupidity anymore. Joe was Joe, and he wasn’t scary in any way, no matter what Perconte said. 

When he heard the knock, he grabbed his glasses, shoved him on his face, and tried not to run to the door like an abandoned puppy. 

George took a breath to steady himself and pulled open the door. 

Joe cleaned up nice, though George wasn’t sure he’d ever seen him look out of place. He just had one of those faces, and _damn him_ , he looked near perfect in just about anything. He’d gone all black - black jeans, black shirt, leather jacket. 

While George was distracted looking at him, Joe was looking at him. “All right there, Georgie?” 

“Nah,” he breathed. He reached out, loosely grabbing his shirt and pulling him in for a kiss. 

Joe stepped closer, wrapping an arm around his waist. “Could get used to this,” he said, pulling away enough to look him over another time. “You got new glasses.” 

“Yeah, thought I’d try out seeing for a while,” George replied. Just by kissing Joe and standing here talking to him, all of that nervousness he’d once felt flitted away just as easily as it had come. The longer Joe stood there, though, just looking at him, the quicker George would lose his nerve. 

“They look great. Make you look hot.” 

George couldn’t think of a single clever thing to say. He’d never been so absolutely speechless as he’d suddenly become when Joe was concerned. 

“Joe,” he whispered. 

He felt a little bit like crying, but he was comforted by the gentle way Joe was holding him. Joe was looking at him like he couldn’t imaging ever paying attention to anything else ever. George knew the feeling. 

“I love you.” 

George thought he’d burst with the declaration. He had considered shouting it outside and throwing his arms up, or clinging closer to Joe, the words tumbling out of his mouth like he couldn’t wait to be rid of them. But it was calm. He spoke levely, no _I think_ preceding, and it sounded confident. 

It was a fact. 

Joe didn’t say anything for several seconds. But he didn’t recoil from George, either. George wasn’t jumping to interrupt, to take anything back or explain that Joe didn’t have to say it. He’d decided he wanted Joe to know, and he wasn’t going to apologize for that. 

“Huh,” Joe said, but it sounded a lot like _no shit, idiot_. “Yeah.” He nodded. “I love you.” 

George didn’t need to be told twice. His mind had gone from blank, calm that he’d finally gotten it all off his chest and was now up to Joe to interpret, to suddenly running a thousand miles an hour. Those three words lit a spark of energy inside of him that he wasn’t sure he could control. 

He didn’t really know what to do with himself now, and he was vaguely aware the hand holding onto Joe’s shirt was shaking a little. He bounced where he stood before leaning in for another quick kiss. It was a little messy, like he couldn’t quite focus enough on it to make it work. 

“I gotta go sit down,” George replied with a small laugh. 

As he walked to the couch, pulling Joe along with him, he wasn't really sure what had just happened. He felt like he needed to tell everyone he knew just so someone could fact check the situation. 

They settled down with George at Joe's side, legs thrown over his lap. 

Joe didn’t have to ask if George was okay. He would be; he just wanted an excuse to be held. 

“We had a reservation at 6:30,” Joe said, breaking the silence they sat in. Neither seemed too bothered to get up.

“Maybe tomorrow,” George replied, tilting his head up to look at him. 

George didn’t feel too guilty about cancelling their date. They had thousands of tomorrows.

_  
_

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Not representational of the real men. Solely based off the portrayals from the HBO series.
> 
> 2\. Kinda edited. Sometimes unrealistic.
> 
> 3\. Title credit to _How Do the Fools Survive_ by The Doobie Brothers.
> 
> 4\. follow me on tumblr @ capnixons


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